Dear Paris Hilton,
Put them away.
Love,
The 6 Billion Residents of the Planet Earth. We've ALL seen them already.
PS: Despite the fact that you're desperately wearing it open to the waist, that dress is cute, and your hair looks sweet. WHY DID YOU HAVE TO GO AND EFF IT UP?
When I was younger, all I wanted in the world was to look like Christy Turlington. Okay, and to marry Robert Sean Leonard's character in Dead Poets Society [in my fantasy, somehow he didn't die at the end. I may have somehow saved him with the power of my adolescent love]. Sometimes, those two fantasies would be confabulated into one fantastic fantasy, where I looked like Christy Turlington in my wedding dress.
I am pretty sure I never fantasized about looking like this, though:
Don't get me wrong: her face is AMAZING, still. She's one of my favorite models ever. But what's with the WAC from the waist up shirt-and-tie bullshit? No one ever ended up in a George Michael video dressing like this.
Sometimes, I don't even need to write a caption:
But sometimes I can't resist. I don't know who you are, random fug, but trying putting on something that was designed for an ADULT, who is not either a full-time employee of the American Ballet Theatre, or a recent escapee from Bellvue. Thanks.
So THAT'S how it's gonna be, eh, Lindsay?
A nightgown over leggings -- LEGGINGS! WHY DON'T YOU JUST STAB ME? -- accessorized with a Hefty bag? FINE. FINE. If this is what you want, then FINE It's OVER. I LOVED you. I DEFENDED you. I MADE YOU MY AIM ICON, FOR PETE'S SAKE. And this is how you decide to end it? Well, I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY NOW. Because MY HEART is BROKEN.
PS: The shoes are still good.
PPS: My endorsement of your shoes DOES NOT mean I am NOT breaking up with you, because I AM. But let's all remember WHY I am. BECAUSE YOU PUSHED ME TO IT. It's all YOUR FAULT. I tried to make this work. I tried to COMMUNICATE. But you just wouldn't listen.
Intern George has so many good qualities. He gives great foot rubs, of course. And he's very pretty, naturally. And urbane. And he's very smart. He's also even more obsessed with the Tom Cruise Reign of PR Terror than we are. But best of all, he has a Celebrity Mindreader on speed dial. So, this morning, while he was flipping through our photos sources -- topless, natch -- and came across the following, he offered to give her a call. I think you'll agree that the accuracy of her work is peerless:
From left to right:
Maggie Q: "Just don't look at him. If you don't look at him, he can't hurt you."
Simon Pegg: "I'm so uncomfortable right now. Why is he HERE? Shouldn't he be home with his baby? I wonder if this shirt makes me look washed out. I bet it does. JESUS HE MAKES ME SO NERVOUS."
JJ Abrams: "I'm not even going to face toward him. I can't believe that asshat ruined my movie before it even came out. I wish Jack Bristow was real. Jack Bristow would KICK TOM CRUISE'S ASS SO HARD. And then Lena Olin would show up and HELP HIM. They'd TORTURE THE SHIT OUT OF HIM. MAN. I'm just going to write that scene for my own amusement. Shit, does that mean I'm writing fanfic? Not if no one finds out about it, right? I can't believe he's here. He told me he wasn't coming. Jesus. How did this all go so wrong?"
Michelle Monaghan: "I wonder if I can just really subtlely back away from him. Do you think he notices how much I look like Katie Holmes? But he would never confuse us, would he? No, of course not. God, maybe I should pretend to be sick and just lock myself in my room."
Tom Cruise: "I TRIMMED MY BANGS WITH A FLOWBIE!"
Keri Russell: "Way to totally eff up my big blockbuster summer movie role, MAVERICK. I hate your stupid fucking girl bangs. I can't even look at you."
Jonathan Rhys Meyers: "Well, this is awkward."
Oh my god, it's Crazy Beth from Passions at the Paper Magazine Beautiful People Party! How did SHE get in?
It appears that she just snuck in on the way back from a late Tuesday night run to Rite Aid for ice cream and magazines, judging from the sweatsuit, flip flops and no makeup. Seriously, did she just see the party on the way home from buying Monistat and decide to crash?
But maybe I'm being unfair. After all, Crazy Beth's life is hard. First, her first love, Luis, married that Sheridan Crane while she, Crazy Beth, was stuck at home with her incontinent mother and a very very smart monkey, and then she had a total break with reality and hired killer clowns to kidnap Sheridan and hide her in a pit in the basement -- all the while being aided by a murderous lesbian named Charlie who was in love with her, but who later turned out to be HER FATHER in DRAG -- so she could steal Sheridan's baby and pass it off as her own as a way to lure Luis back, but of course, she also had to pretend to be pregnant, so she was walking around town with a sugar bag strapped to her belly, which of course would leak occasionally, and then people started to suspect that something was awry, so she had to run them down with a car and, oh, it all just got very, very complicated. Anyone would sort of lose the ability to dress appropriately for an event, don't you think?
ACT ONE: THE SURPRISE ARRIVAL
The Place: The Mission Impossible III junket in Rome. Unbeknownst to Philip Seymour Hoffman, his placid afternoon of talking to journalists about the role America's been dying to see him in -- as the Man Who Beats the Shit Out of Tom Cruise -- is about to be interupted by none other than Tom Cruise HIMSELF:
But Tom is not alone. He has brought three things: his weird new bangs, his tight girl jeans, and his total divorce from reality. He thinks, "AT LAST! I have arrived to SAVE THIS PRESS JUNKET! I can just sneak up behind Hoffman and SAVE THESE GLIB JOURNALISTS FROM HIS REIGN OF TERROR If I'm very, very quiet, HE'LL NEVER KNOW WHAT HIT HIM. I'M A HERO! AGAIN!"
ACT TWO: IN WHICH OUR HEROINE IS THREATENED
Tom: Hi Keri! I'm not going to look you right in the eye because my magic powers might kill you, okay? HAHAHAHHAHAHA. Want to see my imaginary Blackberry again? Wasn't that funny that time we did that the other day? I am QUITE A COMEDIAN! Maybe I'll do a sitcom next. DON'T LOOK AT ALL THE BULGING VEINS IN MY NECK. I mean it. Don't look at them, Felicity. I will eat your placenta. I mean it. NOW LET'S ACT LIKE WE'RE HAVING SO MUCH FUN SOME MORE! HAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!
Keri Russell: [thinking: I wonder if my reflexes are good enough to grab this bottle, smash him over the head, and make a run for it. Dear Jesus, protect me. I'm so scared.] Hahahaha.
ACT THREE: TOM TAKES A SEAT
Philip Seymour Hoffman: It's true, America. He's batshit crazy. What can I say?
Tom: HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH HOFFMAN YOU JOKER. GOD, isn't this FUN?
Philip Seymour Hoffman: I'm not kidding.
Lindsay is sort of doing that thing to me that boys do, you know, when they want to break up with you but they don't really want to have to actually break up with you, so they act all weird to sort of goad you into breaking up with THEM. Like, okay, first of all, she's dating Brett Ratner? Linds. Honey. Look, I'm sure he's sort of fun and amusing, but it just doesn't look good for you to be dating him, can't you see that? Why don't you date someone more age appropriate? What about, like...say, Topher Grace? He's a good actor, he's handsome, he's never photographed out and about all drunk and disorderly, he's never slept with Paris Hilton -- as far as we know -- he seems to come from a very stable family, and I'm sure he can read. Doesn't that sound nice? Come on! Don't you want to be in a stable relationship, where you're not ENDLESSLY replaying your daddy issues? No? Okay, fine.
Then let's talk about the outfits.
The thing about this outfit is that almost -- I said almost -- every individual piece of it is fine. Working from the bottom up:
But together? All this together? It's so Crazy Destitute Nutjob With Great Shoes. THAT'S NOT A COMPLIMENT. Even the paparazzo behind you is all, "girl. PLEASE."
You know how when you were a kid and your Mom would go away for the weekend for some reason, your Dad would totally be all on top of shit for like all of Friday night, and you'd get your bath on time and he'd pretend to make you eat your vegetables and you'd pretend to eat them, like usual, and then maybe he'd let you stay up a LEETLE later than usual, just to watch The Gong Show, but then it was straight to bed, and it was all very parental and business as usual, but then by Saturday afternoon something had happened and it's like 1pm and you're both wearing your jammies still and you're all like, "Daddy, can I have cake for lunch?" and he's like, "SURE! Bring it in here, and I can finish teaching you poker! Make sure to bring a piece for the dog!" and it's really fun, but by 5:30pm on Sunday, you both sort of have a stomach ache and somehow the dog got lost FOUR TIMES over the weekend and there's a very strange smell in the living room but neither of you knows where it's coming from and then your mom gets home and you're both very very relieved to see her, because that means order will once again be restored, and you kind of forgot how pretty she is and how good she smells -- like soap! And maybe a little bit like coffee -- and thank God, thank God she's back?
Well, kids, that's gonna be the situation around here for a little while, because someone somehow found the time -- in the middle of our very busy schedule of eating peanut butter with a spoon, watching Melrose Place on SOAPNet, doing our real jobs, making fun of people's outfits, and working on that fort we're making out of Diet Coke cans -- to go and get herself married. So until she gets back from her honeymoon, it's just you guys and me, and that chocolate cake. I'm going to try my damnest not to stink the place up on my own, but I'm not making any promises.
However, I am going to kick off my Temporary Solo Reign of Terror by appointing myself an intern. I call him George:
Be nice to us.
Okay, readers. This one hurts me. It hurts me a lot:
WALLACE SHAWN, WHAT ARE YOU WEARING? No! No! Althought I admire the sentiment behind your plea for peace, DON'T WEAR THAT SHIRT WITH A SUIT! No! No! Again, I say no!
And why is this so painful for me? Because I LOVE Wallace Shawn. How can you look at that face and not love this man (albeit not in a Tom Cruise I LOVE THIS WOMAN kind of way, at least not in my experience)? First of all, he was, of course, Mr Hall, the lovable hapless teacher in Clueless -- which, hello, who doesn't love Clueless? It's the first movie I ever walked out of with the reaction, "That was hilarious! I need to go buy some clothes immediately," a reaction which basically informed the rest of my life -- and, then, of course, in The Princess Bride, he taught us all both never to get involved in a land war in Asia, and, more importantly, to never go up against a Sicilian when death is on the line. Those are important life lessons, people. Which is why it is almost INCONCEIVABLE that I have to say something mean about him...but Wally! Oh, Wally. I don't know what Cher Horowitz would have said about this get-up, but I suspect it would not have been super-complimentary.
Do you think Rosie O'Donnell's wife, the very cute Kelli O'Donnell, ever thought to herself at some point in the evening pictured below:
"Oh my God, I'm bound forever to a woman who thinks it's okay to wear a black denim vest in public?"
I know Rosie fancies herself a comedian, but does that mean she is contractually required to dress like Louie Anderson?
We haven't seen much of GFY Good Sport Kiki Dunst lately:
But it's comforting to know that even when she's laying low, chances are good that she looks mildly to moderately homeless.
Oh, yeah. This is a great look:
This outfit reminds me of a moment in my youth. Picture it: Southern California. Late spring, 1993. My senior English class sits in a warm classroom, all of us staring out the window and not down at our copies of Heart of Darkness. We have all been accepted to college. We are done with high school. My English teacher, Mr. Moran, asks a question about the book. None of us can answer. Not a single one of us has read even a word of it. We are all slacking off. Instead of berating us for this, however, Mr Moran just looked at us all for a long beat, sighed, and said, "Fine. I'll just TELL YOU what happened."
The look of resignation on his face, the look that said, "I could fight this, but why bother?," the total expression of having simply given up, but not really caring that he'd given up anymore, that's what we're seeing here on Ms Simpson. Her sister's cuter than she is now, her dad doesn't love her anymore, no one wants to see her movies or eat her Pizza Bites, her best friend is cannoodling with her ex-husband, that skinny twerp from Maroon 5 dumped her via text...why bother? Why even wash your hair? Just toss on a schmatta and last season's LV and go out and eat some chicken wings with your accountant.
I didn't understand this Kelly Kapowski-meets-Joan Collins halter-vestlette-fabric swatch until I went poking around for information about Gretchen Wilson and learned that her new album is entitled All Jacked Up, at which point the clouds parted, everything made sudden sense, and Handel's "Messiah" burst through the heavens to fete my eureka moment.
The people with Lauren Ambrose realized a few minutes ago that she had thoroughly violated the Trouser Code's rule of the rise -- specifically, if it's long enough to park a car in, then it's too long. Alas, something tells me Lauren Ambrose herself failed to figure this out until about two seconds before the camera clicked.
It guts me that we couldn't have prevented this tragedy, but hopefully, this public-service fugging will save from Mom Jeans mortification all the girls who are out there, somewhere, about to put a leg into pants it'll take them six months to zip up. Stop, girls! Let Lauren's folly be your friend.
So, Julia Roberts is one of the best paid actresses in the entire world, right?
Then why the hell is she wearing jeans that she: bought at the Gap in 1997; bummed around town in for six years; used as a dust rag for six months; rescued from the rag bag in 2004; wore when she moved to New Mexico; wore when she created her compost pile in New Mexico; forced Danny Moder to wear around the house while she was pregnant, so she could be with them at all times; wore when she was bumming around the house losing the baby weight and thinking pretentious, irritating thoughts about Phinnnnnneauaeausususs and Hazel; wore when she drove her moving van to New York; and wore, apparently, to every performance of whatever play she's in, ever.
Look, I get the appeal of the Grubby Jeans. Everyone has a pair. I have a pair. They're about nine sizes too big, have a giant hole in the crotch, and boast a pen and ink drawing of a flower on the right knee. I wear them only in the privacy of my own home, usually when I'm moving furniture or watching The Notebook and eating a packet of Mallomars flavored only with the salt of my tears (note: this has never actually happened). But because I was raised IN A SOCIETY and not BY WOLVES I would never EXPOSE people to the HORROR of the grubby jeans. For sweet pete's sake, Julia. Buy a pair of jeans manufactured in this millenium.
Lindsay Lohan's Internal Monologue:
Shirt? Check.
Bag? Check.
Tights? Check.
Grandma sweater? Check.
Pants? OH MY GOD.
An excerpt from an IM conversation had by the writers of our sister site, Go Fug YourScientologist.com, located deep within the Scientology Center:
HALEY: Ew, did you see what Kate Cruise is wearing today?
JENNIFER: I know! She's FULLY wearing the 8-month pregnancy pillow instead of the 10 month pregnancy pillow. SO. GROSS.
HALEY: I KNOW. Why doesn't she just put on some LEGGINGS and call it a day?
JENNIFER: HAHAHAHAHAHHA. You're so funny. I can't believe John Travolta didn't think you were clear enough to ride on his plane last week.
HALEY: Shut up, that really hurt my feelings. I heard he flew right past Xenu. I can't believe I missed that.
JENNIFER: He totally didn't, unless Xenu lives in the Capital Records Building.
HALEY: HAHAHAHAHHAHA
JENNIFER: Seriously, though, don't tell him I said that.
END TRANSMISSION.
Here's the thing: Katie Holmes, of course, is dressed fine -- incorrect-sized [ALLEGED] pregnancy pillow aside. But she looks like hell. Which is what HAPPENS when you've been PREGNANT for ONE YEAR. For REAL. This is officially the WEIRDEST CELEBRITY RELATIONSHIP EVER. I mean it. Sweet fancy Moses (not you, Paltrow), what is going ON WITH THEM? Anything could happen with these two and I wouldn't be surprised. To wit:
Look. When InTouch and US Weekly are speculating that the pregnant starlet girlfriend of one of the biggest stars in the world is wearing a prosthetic belly, you are, at the VERY LEAST, in the middle of the most poorly -managed public relations disaster this city has seen in many, many, many a year.
So let's INDUCE THIS KID and get on with chapter two, already.
Okaaaaaaay.
So, this tan little blonde number is Brittany Murphy [no. For real. I double-checked. I promise] :
With Paul Oakenfold, who looks both thrilled and terrified by what's happened to him, all because he agreed to work on Ms Murphy's tune, "Faster Kill Pussycat." He's like, "I don't think it's appropriate for me to actually grasp your spandax-catsuit-clad thigh. Is it? I don't think it is. I think I'll just sort of let you hold your leg up here and pretend to grasp it. Oh, God, take the picture already. Is she on drugs, do you think? I didn't think she was, but...look at the catsuit. If I've learned anything from my years on the music scene, it's that people in catsuits are generally on drugs. Right? This is awkward. God, why did I agree to work with Jessica Simpson?"
There are some celebrities who show up at events wearing a ceremonial Native American headdress and a white Elvis jumpsuit and you just chuckle and say, "Oh, Cher. You so crazy. Don't ever change." At some point, these certain fugly-dressing celebs -- the ones who push the limits of crazy dressing until it becomes, basically, mere costumery for their equally crazy personalities -- would disappoint us if they showed up somewhere in something tasteful. What would horrify us in, say, Lindsay Lohan, elicts only delight on someone like, say, Mariah Carey:
Oh Mimi. You're wearing a cropped demin jacket as a shirt, and you appear to have stolen your boots from Chewbacca. Don't ever change.
Okay, either Joe Simpson really hates Ashlee and wants to pretend she's Jessica, or he thinks Jessica is so early 2000s and is all set to replace her. Either way, his youngest child is inching ever closer to being able to assume the duties of Jessica Simpson should it be deemed that Jessica Simpson is unable to or incapable of performing them. [I personally feel that day has long passed us by, but Joe Simpson did not ask my opinion, so we're still stuck with her for now.]
At any rate, check out Assica at an appearance in Australia:
Long blond and wavy extensions, orange skin, signature pose, shrinking body that leads to a more dominant, prominent chin... all the hallmarks of Jessica are there. Assica has even chucked her punk clothes for something that looks ripped off from her sister's wardrobe. Now, all Joe needs to do is successfully marry her off to Ryan Cabrera, like he's been trying to do all along, so we can see if Newlyweds: When Pop Singers Collide II can FINALLY produce some little bundles of money to carry on the family name and pay for Joe's retirement castle.
Although if we go down that path, then it's only a matter of time before Assica gets linked some alpha-male star of an MTV show and then rumored details of the tryst will make the "ass" in her name all too literal, and then she'll have to put on a happy face for a year before getting a divorce and having a fling with, like, James Blunt, or something.
Joe! This path doesn't work! Stop her!
What a cute black cocktail dress! How kicky and pretty!
... Sigh. I'm tired.
I cut Ashton Kutcher a lot of slack for several reasons:
But oy:
Just don't.
The tragedy, of course, is that he was wearing this on MTV earlier, sans sports coat, and he looked totally cute:
Sweet pea, all you had to do was TRADE the sports coat for the cardi, not ADD it on. SO CLOSE.
When I first saw this photograph, I thought, "I've about had it with Bebe Neuwirth thinking that tights are the same thing as pants. I love her, and I will never forget the time she played the spoons at Woody and Kelly's wedding, but she looks like she forgot to finish getting dressed." And then I started to worry that maybe she's suffering from some sort of dementia in which she thinks, as an Anne Taintor magnet on my fridge proclaims, "Her life is a Broadway musical." And then I realized that if it rains, she is totally hosed, as this garment was clearly constructed from what used to be her umbrella before she ripped it off the wire, stapled it around her body, and reinforced it with a neck ribbon.
Later, however, I saw photos of her wearing this outfit down a runway, which leads me to believe that somebody professional designed this... this... wow, I don't know what to call it, because I think a dress should by definition hang more than an inch below your lady folds. Ergo, I'm frustrated that the fashion industry is apparently trying to stamp out the mighty trouser. Because although I secretly love the idea of a world in which we all walk around ready to deploy jazz hands at any moment, I really do think it's unwise to make nylon the foundation of our society.
Okay, I'll give her that maybe her dress got wrinkled in the car on the way over, but... I am pretty sure that skin color isn't found in nature. I believe it's "red-orange" in a Crayola box, and it reminds me of that game "Lemonade Stand" I'd play when I was 5 on the archaic Apple computers with giant floppy disks, and when you got lucky and got a really hot day where people were buying lemonade all over the place, they'd make the sun this color when you got the weather report. It's the color of being scorched. And she's doing it intentionally. I don't understand. Is fair skin that appalling?
Doesn't this look like a wax figurine of Nicky Hilton?
The shiny face and the stiff way she's holding her upper body are so Madame Tussaud's, and the scarf just adds to the notion that they didn't really finish the statue on time and so they're holding her head on by tying that thing reeeeally tightly.
None of which is really fug, per se, it's just weird. But luckily, the presence of formal shorts, on which we have put a pox and a fashion jihad, makes this a completely legitimate posting. That, and the fact that if you're out on the town wearing a sleeveless top and shorts so short that a Nair commercial could break out at any moment, you might not need the scarf. Just a theory.
Those poor shoes. Like so many pairs before them, they are victims of what's going on upstairs. Or perhaps more aptly, what's not going on upstairs, if you catch my drift, which you should, because it's really more like a hurricane wind.
Oh my GOD, John Corbett, we really need to talk about what's happening here:
Okay, first of all, we've got the red ruffled tuxedo shirt, open a button too far -- and did I mention the ruffles? And also the red? And the red ruffles? He's like a mariachi band without the subtlety -- and then we've got the RUFFLED CUFFS ON THE SHIRT and then we've got...the hair. And the muttonchops. It's as though John Corbett watched the scene in Serendipity where his hilariously Yanni-esque singer character made a music video that was all flowing hair and, like, hobbits and prancing about with a lute and thought, "Man, I look good," instead of "Oh, my god, this is the only legitimately funny moment in this movie, except for maybe a couple of bits with Piven," like the rest of us did. And then he decided he WAS a singer, and then he -- really, in real life -- made a video where he's like bailing hay with, like, a dog in the outback, and the whole time you watch it, you keep expecting a hobbit to show up, because his real, current video is really very alarmingly similar to his fake Serendipity video, and it's like the real world and the movie worlds have folded in upon each other and not in the way where, for example, Ron Livingston is showing up at your door to declare his love, but in a way in which John Corbett apparently legitimately really is into MUTTONCHOPS and my God, how I am supposed to live in that world? I ask you.
Many of us know Kristy Swanson as the clever girl at the end of Pretty In Pink who realizes Duckie is the real catch, and snaps him up while Molly Ringwald makes out with wimpy household appliance Blaine in the parking lot (who, if he were a household item, would more likely be some sort of premoistened rag than an item requiring actual power). Others know Swanson as the girl who was Buffy before it was fashionable to be Buffy. And the rest of America might recall something about her winning Skating With Celebrities while partnered with Lloyd Eisler, and on that tip, one person knows her as the human hot-dog bun who slept with her husband while they were off cavorting on ice and wifey was at home pregnant with his baby.
However, Ms. Swanson herself apparently isn't happy with this legacy, so she's chosen to reimagine herself as Courtney Love.
Infusing matronly clothes with an eau de skank is an art form Latter-Day Love has mastered (her logline: "She's just Mom... fresh off the trash pile!") , and Swanson has managed an admirable homage here. Jacket and skirt? All Chico's, all the time, trashed up by a wrinkled lingerie top that may or may not have been purchased at Wal-Mart. And all of it is carefully falling off her body, as Love's attire usually is when she lumbers through these events. Personally, I cannot wait until these two become best pals, swapping shirts and lipsticks and running around town bleating about getting respect. It's going to be excellent.
I would think that Rob Schneider was wearing this pink shirt/suede vest/alarming primitive man-jewelry combination as a joke, if it were not for one thing:
I was a young lass, barely out of college, and spending the weekend in San Francisco with a friend. We went out to a club that was called something very chic and urbane that I can no longer recall -- it had something to do with cows, I believe, and also with drinking -- to dance with other young people and drink beer and wave our hands in the air like we just couldn't be bothered, etc, etc and so forth. Anyhoodle, on the way back to our car -- don't ask me why we were driving somewhere in San Francisco, we just were -- we saw a small, slight man who was wearing a vile raspberry velvet suit with, I believe, a shiny shirt open much, much, much more than required by the fashion of the day. He looked us over, and said, like a wee, be-velveted wordsmith, "hey ladies! How's it going?" And then he gave us finger guns.
That man was Rob Schneider.
And so, really, on the scale of things, this is not so very terrible.
Yeah, sure, Eileen Davidson is on The Young and the Restless, and sure, she originated the role she is currently playing, but I think I speak for everyone when I say that she will always be remembered most fondly for playing five different characters -- well, one character, and four caricatures -- on Days of our Lives. And we will always hold dear the memory of Kristen (no. 1) trying to buy the baby of Susan (No. 2) so she could keep up the ruse that she was having John's spawn, and how she tried to sell Susan into white slavery, and how Susan ended up turning the tables and kidnapping Kristen and marrying John Black and his Eyebrows of Judgment and naming the baby Elvis because the evil Stefano had impregnated her while disguised as the King, and how at one point I'm pretty sure the ogre-toothed Susan's pretty fake Kristen dentures went flying across the room and landed in someone's glass, and then a nun came along called Sister Mary Moira (no. 3) who... did something... and then there was a guy named Thomas (no. 4) and a woman named Penelope (No. 5) and OH MY GOD I can't keep track of this any more, and all I really remember from that time was wishing ALL of them would shut their traps about John Black, because seriously, the guy always seems a hair too close to mullet territory for my taste, and WHAT is with him always "acting" by inhaling sharply through his nose, leaning his head back, and cocking an eyebrow while looking down through half-open eyes? STOP THAT, JOHN BLACK.
Ahem. As you can see, the spectre of five different characters is enough to drive anyone insane. And I think it may have done that to Eileen Davidson...
... as she appears to be wearing velvet capri pants with that quasi-vest, which I don't believe is designed to be worn over a button-down shirt. I appreciate the thought of being prepared for a board meeting that takes place while on horseback in the English countryside during a fox hunt, but it doesn't really seem practical or terribly likely.
Another tragic footless wonder in Hollywood. Don't these actresses realize that if they would just HEM THEIR PANTS, for L. Ron's sake, then perhaps a maker of hot footwear would offer up some freebies to wear on the red carpet in exchange for some namedropping? Is that not worth the $20 investment it requires to stop wearing jeans like they're footie pajamas?
SHOES, ladies. If nothing else, think of the shoes. Although I'll forgive the aforepictured Heather McComb -- a.k.a. Mrs. Dawson Leery -- for lacking this manner of foresight, as it's hard to see much beyond the forehead of her husband.
I just don't get the thought process from actress Marie Matiko here:
"What to wear to the Beverly Hills Film Festival? What to wear? What says BEVERLY HILLS? My DVF cocktail dress? No, no. That flirty little frock I picked up at Marni? No, no, no. Oh! Of course! I know! My I Dream of Jeannie outfit! At last, I understand why they keep telling us to invest in a little black harem outfit! It IS perfect for every occasion."
Even his appearance on the televisual cyclone of suck that is Will & Grace could not deter me from believing Harry Connick, Jr., is a fine-looking specimen.
And yet... because lately, with me, there is always an "and yet" on the horizon...
... that does not make it a good idea to appropriate Patrick Dempsey's look, especially without bothering to update half of it from its 1980s heyday. Granted, he still looks better than most younger male actors of today (I won't point any fingers, but the ringleader's name begins with a "C," and ends with a "had Michael Murray"), and they could learn something from their elders, but the fact remains that something is very off about this photo. It's as if he got a makeover by John Hughes.
With an assist from Nicole Kidman's needleist. That face is looking a trifle botoxic.
Chris Meloni is so sexy on the TV. Although he's not what I would traditionally identify as my type, there's something about him that's just very delicious. I thought he was sexy when he was all evil and nefarious -- yet also maybe sensitive and very naked -- on OZ. And he's all sexy on SVU, at least, he is when I watch it, which only when I'm home sick and it's rerunning on USA or whatever. However:
Why does he go to premieres dressed like the Unibomber? I don't even really mind the hoodie -- it's saucy, and perfect for, like, running around town -- but I am perplexed as to why he has the hood up in EVERY PICTURE. The hood up ruins the sexy! WHY DO PEOPLE INSIST ON TAKING THEIR SEXY AND F'ING WITH IT? Put the sexy down, and slowly back away from the sexy. LEAVE THE SEXY BE.
Julie Delpy is a human left turn. She is the master of irrational fashion, starting with the right idea and then zig-zagging horribly off course.
Take, for example, this outfit.
Little black dress, hair that could use a brushing, cute shoes... all in all, unremarkable but -- aside from the fact that it might be a tad tigh -- inoffensive. That is, until you get to those horrid green leggings poking out from under the skirt like pesky little Peeping Toms who don't know how to stay hidden and will most likely end up gawking themselves silly until they fall fall out of a tree, get hit by a car, and wake up with their pants on Lea Thompson's hope chest while she reads their underwear.
Every time I see leggings or pants or jeans under dresses, I feel like I've accidentally barged into the person's changing room at Bloomingdale's and caught them trying on a garment on a day when they felt too lazy to take off their shoes and pants first. I've totally been that person, yet on those days I can't even bring myself to waddle out of the dressing room to stand in front of the big mirror, lest I be seen -- much less actually take that look to the streets. For shame, Delpy and all of your sartorial ilk. For shame.
You know that episode of Seinfeld where George dates a woman who doesn't mind if he indulges his long-held dream to wrap himself completely in velvet? It seems that Cynthia Nixon has finally succumbed to a similar whim:
Head to toe suede! Of course, I'm fairly sure that George's relationship was completely destroyed by the end of the episode -- I believe he somehow accidentally got himself into a muddle wherein he was obligated to have a threesome with the Velvet Lover and her creepy male roommate -- so cross your fingers that Ms Nixon doesn't somehow find herself in a similar New York Post-worthy kerfuffle. Although, on the other hand, who doesn't love a messy yet comedic accidental sex farce, especially when it's not happening to you? Okay, so maybe I've talked myself into this. Continue with the suede, Ms Nixon, but only if it somehow gets you into a situation which requires the judgemental squawk of a wacky sitcom soundtrack. Or Page Six. Whichever.
So I have a friend at my office -- my real office, not GFY headquarters, where "a friend" would mean, "Heather" -- who is obsessed with my obsession with Lindsay Lohan. The fact that I still have a powerful and unexplainable love for all things Lohan aggravates her in a powerful way that some might classify as excessive, nay, even dangerous. She regularly harasses me about this love, and attempts to shame me into abandoning it. But I have held on to the love! I have not forgotten the Lindsay of Mean Girls, or The Parent Trap or Freaky Friday! I know that Lindsay! I love that Lindsay!
But this Lindsay? Is getting a little harder to take:
HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DEFEND THIS? Her dress is made entirely of unbleached organic paper towels! I AM JUST ONE WOMAN.
Lindsay. I still love you. But my love can not thrive in this kind of environment. You have GOT to give me something to work with. This relationship is a two-way street, and the metaphorical car representing your end of the bargain is stalled! Or, more accurately, you have probably crashed it into a storefront.
Now look what you made me do. I made a mean joke about your driving. God. Our relationship is just unraveling in front of me, and you are doing NOTHING to re-ravel it, or whatever it is you do to fix something that's all unraveled.
Please work with me. I don't want to give up on us. But you're making it so very hard to hold on.
These two crazy teens look like they rolled straight off a Broadway stage and onto the orange carpet. Her ensemble looks pieced together by a costumer who never intended for anyone to see it up close and outside the harsh glare of stage lights, which might obscure the mixing of off-white and white (although it wouldn't excuse the absurdity of a thick cowl-necked knit sweater that is sleeveless -- I have yet to understand exactly what climate makes this kind of garment a necessity), and he seems headed down Cabaret Row in that bowler hat.
The real curiosity, though, are the legwarmer/trouser socks/spats hybrids hanging around Ms. Cassidy's calves. She ought to have them arrested for loitering.
It appears that popstress Rihanna thought the Underage People's Choice Awards required a costume:
She is dressed as An Extra From That Episode of Fame Where Doris Was Unable To Concentrate On Her Tap Class Because She's In a Fight With Coco and Then Debbie Allen Yells At Them And They Manage To Pull Both Their Friendship AND Their Routine Together in the Final Act.
Because apparently, being the Kids' Choice costs, and here is where Rihanna begins paying. In sweat.
Okay, so Kristin Cavallari looks totally cute in this dress. I have to admit that even though the Laguna Beach kids make me want to rip out my own hair and hang myself with it.
So why am I fugging her? Because she is a fake tan away from completing her transformation into Jessica Simpson. And that makes me sad, in part because Jessica Simpson makes me want to rip out my own hair, glue it back on so that I can rip it out again, use it to flog myself, and then hang myself with it, but also because if you don't have a personality of your own to shove down our throats, then please, at least select one to clone that isn't all smoke and mirrors and PR and Mystic Tan. And choose one that isn't so overdone: We already have a mini-Jessica, and her name is Ashlee, and Kristin had best beware of any hulking Svengali dads lurking in the bushes with a damp hanky at the ready, because Pa Simpson will not be amused that his formula is being copied.
Sigh. I really wish she'd cloned herself while wearing something hideous. Still, ever the poster child for negativity, I will add that I wish she'd painted her toenails.
A book, huh? Is it just stuff you already put on the Web site?
Nope, we wrote the whole thing fresh, just for you.
Awesome. In that case, I want to read it!
Thank you! Click here to find out all the details!
